is the title of a trashy little romance novel that I enjoyed last night before retiring. True, it wasn't the hottest sexiest book ever, but it was enjoyable in a predictable little way. But it made me think. OR rather, the thought of "all I want for Christmas is you" was what led me to the book in the first place.
You my dear reader, are waiting, no doubt with bated breath, hoping against hope that perhaps I mean you, as an individual. But how could I know who anymore? And fantasy is just that, fantasy, and you, as my fans, have to accept that, like it or not.
"There's a boy, I know, he's the one I dream of.." (gotcha again, another Whitney Houston riff). Lol. Oh wait. Does she sing the "All I Want for Christmas is You" song? Anyway, I absolutely do not know this boy except that he works in a shop I frequent. And by this point, I believe I have said enough. And am about to lead you back to what actually happened today and not what could never happen with this boy.
I was driving home. And I got the brilliant idea to call a certain someone that I'm longing to see..(I am full of riffs today), half this column could have been sung.
I called. He came. And we had lunch. And after lunch-he kissed me. And it was hot. Right there in the parking lot, right beside the giant truck that he drives (and no, it's NOT true, he 'ent compensating for anything.) And then he walked me to my car and bade me a safe trip.
When he called this evening I felt so frustrated because the house is so small and everything would be heard. There is NO privacy here. Unfortunately. I told him when they are at church. He said, "Call me then." So I shall. But before I do, I think it only fair to catalogue my desires.
I am hoping the room he selects is posh and that we go after lunch and that we stay there all day and night. Not playing video games. And, am I being coy, my darling readers? How dare I?
I dare.
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
(desires soon to be catalogued-am I just too sleepy? Or am I being discreet?!)
No comments:
Post a Comment